Disclaimer – I own nothing.

A.N – Thank you guys so much! But there's seems to be some confusion so let me clarify that right now. Important: This story will have a minimum of thirty chapters! So, yes, I am most definitely continuing this until the very bitter or beautiful end. Also, sooo sorry for missing my updates for the past two months! I went on vacation and just recently came back, but I'm back on schedule, and will even give a second update sometime this month as an apology! Anywho, on with the show!

To AliceGI, viola1701e, Guest (1), apolakay54, LadyRana, DragonxEye, Guest (2): Thank you guys so much for reviewing! It feels so great to know that others are liking this story as much as I do! Seriously, you guys rock. Your reviews definitely make me smile throughout the day when I'm having a bad one, so THANK YOU from the very bottom of my heart!

And to all who've favorited, followed, or read silently—thank you guys too because I can feel the silent love!

/Mama take this badge from me, I can't use it anymore

It's getting dark, too dark to see, and I feel like I'm knockin' on heaven's door

Knock-knock-knockin' on heaven's door/

-Knocking on Heaven's Door

Chapter 3 – The Beats in a Heart

Hermione awoke the next morning with an awareness that she hadn't felt since the day after she had been injured in the Department of Mysteries. It was in the way her breath picked up speed, and her hands shook slightly. What had she done?

But she didn't have time to ponder over the colossal mistake she might have made because Draco was leaning over her shoulder, his breath warm on her face. What did he want? She was still clutching her wand, but it was in a useless position.

"I know you're awake," he said, and the simple words, so dramatically different to the ominous feeling she awoke with sprung her into action.

Hermione sat up and pushed Draco away with a glare so fierce one would think he had single handedly destroyed the world…but then again, maybe he had in his own way.

"Thank you for stating the obvious," Hermione said snarkily, her head tilted down. She was hyper-aware of the fact that she might have morning breath, and that she probably looked disheveled. She wanted to look as composed as he appeared to be.

But he was anything but composed. Inside Draco Malfoy was a storm of fury and worry, which culminated into a tiny ball that banged against the inside of his flesh, knocking against his ribcage. But he was a Malfoy raised, and a Dragon born, and after everything that had taken place last year…he had learned to control that ball and mask it with a raised eyebrow and mocking lips.

However, Hermione could only see the outside, the pretend, and so she rolled her eyes and asked him, "what do you want, Malfoy?"

"You need to get up and get dressed," Draco didn't miss a beat, and spoke as he went about fixing a cup of coffee for himself and Hermione. "We need to leave in about forty minutes."

"Why?"

"We have to meet my parents to discuss wedding details."

The bomb was dropped, and Hermione couldn't breathe. His parents…his fugitive father…no. But Draco could already see the "no" on her lips and was ready with his answer. "You may not like it, and frankly, neither do I, but it has to be done. A lot of measures have been taken so he could meet with us in a place you'd feel comfortable, while not attracting attention. He still is a wanted man, you know."

"Wanted? But Dumbledore's dead!" Hermione exclaimed as though the two things were mutually exclusive. And the fact of the matter is to her, Ron, and Harry, the two really were intertwined.

"Oh please," it was Draco's turn to roll his eyes. "Don't tell me you actually thought the ministry would crumble just because Dumbledore died. You did didn't you?" He laughed as he added an exorbitant amount of sugar to his coffee.

Hermione wanted to kick him in the shin for his laughter, and berate him for adding so much sugar simultaneously. She wanted to bathe him in molten lava for speaking so casually about a great man's death. She wasn't sure that she didn't deserve the same fate though, and the doubt shook her.

"Well, it isn't that great of a leap is it?" Hermione shouted as she stomped angrily into the room and did a quick Scourgify.

She looked through her trunk of clothes for something appropriate, only to realize she was looking for something appropriate for tea with Death Eaters. The absurdity almost made her laugh. Instead, she decided to wear the least appropriate thing she could assemble on a whim full of fire and hate.

"Maybe not to you Gryffindors," Draco scoffed, and sat down Hermione's coffee on the coffee table, as he sat himself down to sip his own as he waited for her. "But to the rest of the world who can see past Dumbledore, and recognize that he isn't the center of the universe, it is a huge leap."

Hermione could see the validity of his argument, and that only caused her frown to deepen. In her mind, Draco Malfoy was a snotty little boy who couldn't tell his head from his ass, so why would he ever make any sense? But he does make sense, and Hermione felt uncomfortable realizing that she was the blind. She had been the ignorant one. No, that just couldn't be right. So she rationalized her own logic.

"If the ministry didn't crumble, then how do you explain the Marriage Law? Are you going to tell me that the Law isn't a direct result of Dumbledore's death?"

"The Marriage law is the result of a bunch of old fools who think that by forcing people together the upcoming war will magically disappear," Draco frowned. "It's got nothing to do with Dumbledore's death and everything to do with the fact that the people making the laws are so old that they're not the ones who will be subject to it."

Hermione walked out of the bedroom at the end of Draco's diatribe dressed in jeans, sneakers, a red hoodie-sweater that said Gryffindor Quidditch in really obnoxiously loud letters.

Draco took one sweeping glance at her and was not amused. "Really, Granger?"

Hermione simply smirked in triumph and passed by him to the cup of hot coffee sitting on the coffee table. "I'm ready to leave when you are," she informed him calmly, as though there was nothing amiss.

But there was everything amiss—she was terrified of this meet-and-greet. What if they tried to kill her on the spot? What if this was all an elaborate trap to capture her and torture her for information? She gripped the ends of her Gryffindor sweater tighter, hoping against hope that she could be brave when it counted.

Draco saw the fear lingering in her eyes, how she clutched to the hem of her sweater much like she had clutched her wand last night. He saw and felt for her in a way that was foreign, and yet not. He was no stranger to the helpless feeling of fear. He was no stranger to the way it could sink its teeth inside of you and burn you from the inside.

He saw Mudblood Granger, trying to be brave, and hated her because he knew that she would succeed where he had failed last year.

With that in mind, Draco stood, arms tense from the sudden desire to reach out to her.

They stood, staring at one another, silence their subtext, and without a word, Draco offered Hermione his arm to apparate, and Hermione hesitantly took it. Breathe. But their breaths caught in their throat as their bodies swung out of rhythm with the Earth, and they were no longer where they once were—in the sanctity of a hotel room where so much had taken place between them.

Lucius Malfoy had eyes that bore into the very depth of a person, and saw their every fear and desire. At least Hermione finally knew where Draco got his soul-searching stare from.

But as Hermione tensely sat in an upscale muggle establishment across from Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy, and Bellatrix Lestrange she had never been more grateful to have Draco Malfoy's stare on her side.

Breathe. Don't Panic. But no one was saying anything. She assumed that Bellatrix's casual and slightly crazy-sounding "Mudblood" had been a hello. Lucius and Narcissa had yet to say anything at all. Frankly, the only person seemingly relaxed was Draco, and Hermione knew that it was a lie—a front to cover the anxiety that rolled off his body heat.

"Well," Draco broke the silence. "Are we going to actually discuss anything, or did you call this little tete-a-tete for the view?"

"The view really is spectacular," Hermione interjected, spurned by a slight hysteria that was forming within her chest. Draco's hand casually brushed against Hermione's thigh, but she knew it was a warning: relax.

But how could she relax? Maybe they planned to kill her the second she let down her guard.

"I suppose Mudbloods are easy to impress," Lucius sniffed in disgust.

"You shouldn't use that word, Lucius," Narcissa replied. "It's horribly common."

For a moment Hermione thought that Narcissa wasn't as prejudiced as her husband, and she couldn't help but smile bitterly when she realized that Narcissa was just as prejudiced as she had first assumed, only with more public tact than her husband and impeccably well-mannered—the perfect politician's wife.

"Well, I've seen," Bellatrix said softly, and for a moment Hermione could see how beautiful she must have been in her youth. But her voice made Draco tense, and Hermione tensed even further in response to his response. Like bumper cars. Action, reaction. "I've heard, and I can say with all certainty that it is a mudblood, and it should die."

"Careful, Aunt Bella," Draco smiled tensely, "Let's remember this mudblood is my fiancé."

"How could I forget?" Bellatrix asked, insanity intensifying her eyes. "You are about to ruin our bloodline with this filth!"

Hermione wanted to retort, but Draco's hand that had brushed past her thigh like a feather beforehand, was now gripping her in a vice hold. This wasn't a warning anymore, this was a silent demand: shut up.

"Must we revisit this distasteful topic?" Narcissa wrinkled her nose in genuine distaste.

"The truth is usually distasteful, my dear" Lucius responded, but there was something about the inflection in his voice that made Hermione look sharply at him.

Lucius' gaze on Narcissa was regretful, as though he were telling a small child a harsh reality, and Hermione realized that perhaps that's exactly what he was doing…or she was reading way too much into the situation—a product of mounting panic.

"Cissy wouldn't know the truth if it smacked her in the face with her own wand," Bellatrix rolled her eyes, and the insane glimmer receded, dormant once again until the next moment when she lost control of her anger.

"Do you want the wedding to be small or large?" Narcissa asked Hermione directly, ignoring her sister's dig. Hermione was surprised to be addressed at the table so formally, but Draco's warning grip was enough to take her out of her stupor.

Small or Large? Hermione felt as though she'd been asked a trick question. Which was the right answer? Was there a correct answer? What would happen if she answered wrong? Would they Crucio her? Would they Imperio the correct answer out of her? Don't panic, don't panic. This is a public space.

But her breaths were coming faster again. Her composure was slipping, and Bellatrix—wild animal that she was on the inside—could smell fear better than a hound-dog. A slow smile spread across Bellatrix's lips, but before she could go on the attack a handsome waiter came to service them. Hermione was going to order some hot tea but Draco ordered a Brandy neat for the both of them.

She wanted to complain but before she could tell him where he could take his Brandy, Draco whispered, "trust me, you'll thank me later."

She didn't trust him, and she was positive that she wouldn't thank him later, but the intimacy of such a statement threw her for a moment. For one moment Hermione allowed herself to despise him just a little less, and in that moment, like rain on the wind, she felt swept up inside of his eyes. And if people were rain, than he'd be a hurricane, and she'd learn to accept all of him…his beauty, and the destruction that he leaves in his wake.

But people didn't fit quite that nicely, and the moment passed, and Narcissa was repeating the question with a small frown at having to do so.

"Whatever Malfoy—Draco wants is fine," Hermione sipped at her Brandy. She watched as Draco took a substantial sip of his brandy; she noticed the way his Adam's-apple bobbed up then down again; she was entranced, but all the while Draco had been looking at her too; he noticed the way her tongue peaked out onto her mouth, savoring the sweet taste of the expensive Brandy.

They. In slow motion. In action. Together.

"Well, at least the Mudblood knows its place—it wouldn't do for it to think at all" Bellatrix sneered at Draco and Hermione.

"Yes, dear Aunt," Draco drawled sarcastically, "Because we all know how much the Dark Lord loves it when you think."

The air was palpable with tension and fury from all sides. But the brandy was slowly relaxing Hermione's shoulders. Draco felt the change, acutely attuned to her in every way, and turned his head towards her. She looked at him, too. Their breaths caught. Light bathed them from the window, and they were illuminated.

Draco's hand ached, and his hate crashed into his desire like a tsunami. Hermione felt her own body's betrayal, and understood the hate in Draco's eyes because she hated, too. They. They want, and Lucius, Narcissa, and Bellatrix saw. Their desire was a spectacle of the highest degree and deepest disgust for others. Their desire was dirty somehow—witnesses had done that.

They saw, but before they could say a word the Dark Mark on three arms burned.

It burned through the glow of want and resentment that had bathed Hermione and Draco, and they were left with a hollow feeling of discomfort beneath their skins.

"Our Lord calls," Bellatrix squealed maniacally, and flew from the table in a glee so severe that Hermione wondered if underneath all the worship and the insanity and thirst for blood that was legendary, Bellatrix might actually love Voldemort.

"We'll leave you to the details," Lucius said to his wife, but his hand lingered on the top of her head gently. He was clearly less enthusiastic about being summoned; the tension in the air now had nothing to do with blood status and flying insults, and everything to do with the fear of never seeing each other again.

Hermione had never contemplated before what it would be like for the wives or husbands of Death Eaters. The doubt in their eyes when they said good-bye, unsure if it was their last. She had never stopped to think that they could feel like she could feel, but she could see the small sliver of terror in Narcissa's eyes as she looked at Lucius' retreating back.

Draco had watched her watch his parents, and gave her that moment to understand—there was no easy side, nor right, nor perfect. War is fear. War is endless. War makes everyone feel and hurt regardless of what side they are on.

War is in the beats of each of their hearts, and so he laid a hand on the curve of her neck, drawing her attention, letting his heat seep into her so that if this was their last moment, it wouldn't be superfluous words that she'd remember but the one thing that draws them together when they'd rather be apart: heat.

Hermione felt his hands, the same that let Death Eaters into a school of innocents, and didn't move away. She didn't move away, and felt so ashamed of herself, and of him. Her nails dug into her hand, pain focusing her. Say something. Say something. But Draco only let his hand linger for a moment, much like his father. Too much like his father. Perhaps she was more like Narcissa than she'd like to think—she wondered if there was fear in her eyes, too.

He walked away, and it was only when he was by the door that Hermione could say, "Be safe." His body paused, but he didn't turn around. She hoped that he heard her anyway, and turned to Narcissa—before her sat an ice queen, completely opposite to the woman who existed while Lucius was sitting next to her, and Hermione wondered if Draco's presence transformed her as well.

"They'll be back," Narcissa stated, as though Hermione cared. But she did. On some level she cared, and she wanted to cut herself open to take that piece of her out. "The heavens will never abandon their dragon," Narcissa said matter-of-factly.

What the hell does that mean, but it didn't matter because Narcissa started firing questions at Hermione at top speed from color preferences to favorite foods, and dictating proper Malfoy and Pureblood etiquette, the latter which lasted hours and made easier by the brandy in her system.

And as hours passed, Hermione could only be grateful for the distance between her and Malfoy and the desire which somehow always managed to swell in his presence. Hate him. Hate him more, Hermione coached herself with every minute, until she was sitting inside the hotel room convinced that he was nothing to her…nothing except her future husband.

The hour was late when Draco walked into the hotel room. He ran his hand roughly through his hair, and stared out the massive window that overlooked the city. Hermione heard the slight pop and walked out of the bedroom where she had been doing some light reading, to see him bathed in moonlight.

It was a stance that she was slowly becoming accustomed to seeing him in—looking out into the world as though the skylines in view had the answers to the universe.

The lights of the city sparkled and twinkled like fireflies from the moon—endlessly. This was the city she had visited throughout the years, full of life and prospects, and fireflies. This was the city that she loved in her bones, and she remembered the day she had heard that the bridge had fallen from a Death Eater attack—the glorious pillar that told people they were now in London.

Her heart had been full of hate, and sorrow, and she realized that she might share that sorrow with the one man who had always been her enemy—who still was in many respects despite their upcoming nuptials.

But she couldn't dwell on a bridge that sat in ruins miles away. She couldn't wish the beauty of it back into existence, and so she shook herself out of her reverie, and forced herself to let go of the fireflies.

"How'd it go?" she whispered, unsure of his mood after so much time spent in Voldemort's presence.

"You need to learn Occlumency," he stated, but that wasn't an answer at all. It simply provided her with more questions, and she hated not knowing.

"Why?"

"Because I said so," Draco snapped.

"Of course," Hermione sneered. "I forgot that your name was King Malfoy."

"Don't make this an issue, Granger," Draco leaned on the windowsill with his arms. His forearms looked toned, and imposing—he looked imposing in the dark.

Darkness had a way with making the most tame and agreeable men look ominous, let alone a man who was already tittering on the edge of his own darkness.

"How would I even learn? That's not exactly something that I can pick up from a book, regardless how much I loathe to admit it—not everything can be learned with theory."

"I'd teach you," Draco solved her problem with the ease with which he created problems. "I'm going to teach you, starting tomorrow."

"Like hell you will!" Hermione exploded. "There isn't enough gold in your Gringotts account to make me willingly open my mind up to you!"

Monster, she condemned. Hypocrite, she acknowledged. And suddenly, her memories were flitting across her mind. Her first kiss. The day she received her Hogwarts letter. The night she danced in Victor Krum's arms.

The memories were benign, but they were private. They were private in the way that her distorted desire for Draco was private. She felt violated, and yet, it hadn't been painful for her. The memories had risen from her as though she had been beckoning them herself.

But she hadn't. She hadn't, and the fury that rose within her could rival the volcanic eruption of Pompeii.

"How dare you," Hermione raised her wand—the first time she had since they met to discuss his proposal.

"I dare because you will be my wife, Granger," Draco pierced her, but her fire wouldn't be extinguished so easily and he knew this. He knew her. The knowledge made her grit her teeth even more. "Whether or not you like the circumstances is something you will have to contend with on your own—I didn't force you to agree to this union, but you did. And because you did you're going to be around many…unsavory…characters. People who will gladly and roughly pillage through your thoughts at a whim. You need to be able to protect yourself. I need you to protect yourself."

His last words were worth more than all the words he'd said to her all day. He needed her to protect herself because on some level, he cared. He might hate himself for caring, and resent her for making him care somehow, but he did.

Somehow, someway, that was enough to remind her of his subtle defense of her to Bellatrix earlier. They. But it wasn't enough to exonerate him. She wasn't sure what could, but his defense meant something, and so she looked away—unsure as to how to answer.

"My thoughts are mine," she tried to explain. "My memories are precious to me."

"And they still will be."

Hermione knew she couldn't give in, not like this, and Draco knew it, too. And suddenly, she remembered Ron looking away, silently admitting that he didn't love her. Draco might care on some warped level, but he didn't love her either.

"Why do I need to learn Occlumency so suddenly?" Hermione changed tactics. She needed to get at this at a different angle—a different game.

"You're marrying into a family full of Death Eaters, a significant part of the Dark Lord's inner circle, and you're honestly asking me why?" Clearly Draco played the game better than Hermione.

"How could I forget?" She responded bitterly, and the bitterness swept through the air between them and settled in like old friends. Their horrible history was back in between them.

"Your lessons start tomorrow," Draco said sharply as he turned to leave. "We can do it the hard way or the easy way, but tomorrow it begins."

Hermione wanted to yell and shriek and break everything inside. Focus. Something sparked this.

"What happened at that meeting?"

Draco turned to her, and felt his chest constrict—what happened? The Dark Lord happened. Severus Snape, his own Godfather, happened. Fenrir Greybeck happened. But he couldn't find it in himself to share so much. Or much at all, for that matter.

"What happened?" Hermione repeated, and this time Draco removed the gap between them. He let go of their history for a moment. He stepped into her space, and she froze, misunderstanding this Draco with the one that haunts her nightmares sometimes telling her that she's ugly and stupid, and worthless.

He saw the change in her eyes, but couldn't stop himself—his lips dragged themselves over her cheek. He remembered the Dark Lord's cackle, Snape's dispassionate voice, Fenrir's foaming mouth—the images swam in his mind and he tried to lock the memory away. He tried, but—"they threatened what was mine, and I'd see the world burn before I let anyone touch what belongs to me."

His heat, and words were too much, and suddenly Hermione was back to wanting him more than she loathed him. Please, please. But she wouldn't beg, and he didn't care to ask either, and so their lips met.

There was no romance, or sentiment; it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, and Hermione chose to believe in his kiss and his need to protect if nothing else. She chose to believe in the little boy who had never learned to share his toys, and whose pride refused to let him share as an adult. She chose to believe, but Draco couldn't find such blind faith within his grasp, and allowed skepticism and a magnificent inner pride to shroud every choice he made and will make. They, but they weren't who they were before, and the kiss adjusted with them.

The kiss changed with the beats of war and courage, and hope, and suddenly they weren't kissing anymore. Draco pushed himself away, and Hermione shivered. Action, reaction. Come back, but she'd rather skin herself alive than ever plead out loud to him of all people.

"I don't want to learn Occlumency," Hermione let herself share the truth that was hidden inside of her stomach. "I know it's tactically advantageous, but I don't want to learn."

Draco heard her, and he felt a rip inside because he hadn't wanted to learn originally either. He had been scared of himself, too scared to find out what lived within his own soul. You're not a killer, Dumbledore had assured him, but the yet was imminent. The yet was what was inside of himself, and after mastering Occlumency, he knew that he was—he just needed incentive—reasons that were worth it in his heart. His parents lives weren't worth it, and the shame ate at him sometimes.

However, even his understanding couldn't change his mind; if she was going to be his wife, she'd need to know herself too, and understand just what exactly she was capable of.

Occlumency wasn't just to shield the mind, but to protect the spirit from people's true selves; to master Occlumency was to master oneself, and if she was going to be his equal, then she'd need this.

So Draco leaned in, giving her time to move away this time. Hermione felt the shift, saw the compassion in his eyes, the empathy that swam in liquid silver and wanted. Breathe. And their breaths mingled, and joined, living in a moment intertwined as the owners of these breaths adjusted the parameters of their relationship.

"I know you're scared," Draco whispered hoarsely. "I was too, when I was forced to learn last year. But you can't go beyond your blood, beyond the past, if you don't learn Occlumency. If you don't learn…you and I may never be more than married enemies, sharing passions at a whim, not truly knowing the other."

His words were honest. His eyes were steady. His touch was present.

Hermione still didn't want to learn, but…the truth that swam inside of her was that she wanted to know him. She wanted to know him like a wife should, but she refused to admit it to herself, and so she discarded the thought and said, "This isn't for you. I'll need to protect the Order's secrets."

Draco nodded, accepting the lie as truth, and let his hand fall. He let his body move away and Hermione felt a slight chill creep up her arms. She looked out the window like she had when he had first arrived and noted, we, we who were, we are the same no longer.

A.N. – Sooo? What do you guys think? Too much? Not enough? I'm trying to find some kind of balance between the Draco that we love, and Rowling's Draco which was clearly unhinged by the end of HBP.